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PART I.

      Weary of a landsman's life and having arrived at the conclusion that there is no kind of existence with the charm of one on the ocean wave, I took train from Bendigo to Melbourne for the express purpose of shipping Home one afternoon in March, 1897. The day after my arrival in Melbourne I accordingly called into the shipping office, and the shipping being brisk was fortunate enough to procure a berth in the full rigged ship W.G.R., bound to London via Capo Horn. Having cashed my advance note and procured the sailor's usual outfit in the shape of a straw mattress, blankets and oil skins, I lost no time in getting aboard my vessel, which was then lying in Hobson's Bay ready to sail.

      Some of the fresh crew, shipped at the same time as myself had already arrived, the rest were shortly expected. As I passed through the gangway, little did I dream that the voyage Home of the vessel I stood on was to prove a memorable one for disaster, one that clings to me yet in its memories like a hideous nightmare. Glancing round to see who I could chum in with, a sailor's first proceeding, my eye fell on a good-looking young fellow of four or five and twenty, with fair curling hair and a blonde moustache. On speaking to him I at once perceived that he was of foreign extraction. He proved to be of a friendly and communicative turn of mind, and during the conversation that followed, informed me that he was a native of Antwerp, where his mother, brothers, sisters and sweetheart resided. Like myself, he had been ashore for some year, and intended to make this trip his last voyage, and look after his mother who was fast growing helpless. Thus began a friendship which however, was not destined to run too smoothly, at least in its beginning, the recording of which now strangely moves me. Most landsmen know that it is a popular superstition among sailors that it is an unlucky act to sail on Friday. Be this as it may, though there is no doubt that the majority of brave hearts that go down to the wild and stormy sea in big ships entertain this idea, the skipper of the W.G.R., Captain Curtis, must have thought otherwise for with a shorthanded ship we set sail on a Friday afternoon, and by the driving power of a good, stiff, fair breeze, left Hobson's Bay many knots behind us before the last hour of that supposed unlucky day had expired. We had been at sea a few days when one afternoon, Jeffrey, that was the name of my first acquaintance amongst my shipmates, and I, by some means or other became involved in a heated controversy that ended in a most unpleasant manner, at least for me, for on my refusing to reason any further with him, and, moreover, throwing down the gauntlet challenging him to mortal combat, I was signally defeated after a short and sharp contest, which satisfied even the British seamen who witnessed it, and had to pull down my colours, However, both of us being of a forgiving disposition, the usual coolness which usually follows these affairs d'honneur did not last long. In truth, the bonds of friendship seemed to grow stronger after our battle, and Jeffrey and I grew hard and fast shipmates. Fortunately we were both placed in the same watch, he occupying a lower bunk on the starboard side, and I one directly over him. He was a splendid seaman, and afterwards proved himself to be the bravest on the ship; he was heartily sick of a sailor's hard and stormy career, and for a good while had been building up many sanguine plans for a complete change of life. Not the least interesting item was his intention to take me to his home in the neighbourhood of Antwerp and there detain me for an indefinite period. His love of home and the fond hearts it sheltered was intense, and clearly his most striking characteristic, for he never wearied talking about it and them. At times he would produce from his trunk several photographs amongst which that of a pretty little country-woman of his own and his remarks concerning the original added much charm to the picture.

      The first really startling incident which our voyage supplied, and one which was taken by several on board as an ill omen of coming events, occurred one morning as we were sailing merrily along with a nice stiff breeze. A saloon passenger who had become delirious through a sickness the nature of which I forget, made his escape from his attendants, and before he could be stopped rushed on deck up on to the poop, from whence he disappeared into the sea. A boat was quickly lowered and a search made for the unfortunate man, but in vain. Thus occurred the first loss of life and strange fatality; the day was a Friday. The gloom which this sad occurrence cast over all on board was not relieved by the fearful, tempestuous weather which our good ship soon afterwards found itself called upon to face. Wind and water, thunder and lightning, raged around us in a truly awesome manner, and our voyage bade fair to be, what it afterwards proved to be, an unusually stormy and dangerous one. One night whilst in the thick of this terrible weather, Jeffrey and I were lying in our bunks, sleep being out of the question, vainly trying to instil into each other's breasts hopes of better days to come, when we were startled by a shrill whistle, followed by the boatswain's cry, "All hands on deck." Running on deck, for no man unclothed these nights, we found that it was thought necessary that all hands should be on deck prepared for the worst. The night was inky dark, the wind blew furiously, waves rushed upon waves mountains high, each one almost swamping the vessel, whilst an occasional ear splitting crash of thunder was followed by a blinding flash of lightning, which lit up the foam on the crest of the mountainous waves, adding terror to a scene which struck me as being grandly sublime, in spite of the near presence of disaster and death, a picture which made up one of the masterpieces of a Master Hand. Suddenly, almost without warning, a tremendous squall struck the ship, and she was caught aback, an occurrence which places a vessel in imminent danger, driving her astern, while at the same time throwing her over on to her beamends, a mishap calling for a display of seamanship in which knowledge, pluck and quickness of action must be the main elements, for thirty minutes after such an incident no life aboard is worth two minutes insurance.

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PART II.

      At time the W.G.R. was caught aback the whole of both watches were on the poop it being the only fairly safe retreat from the heavy seas which continuously swept the decks. When the squall struck the ship Jeffrey instantly, with great presence of mind, assisted by uncommon and sterling courage, made his way forward along the weather rail and let go the foresail sheets, which is done to free the ship, and then, at immense risk, slowly climbed aloft to the yardarm to clear the bunt lines and clew lines, which had become foul in the blocks through the shaking and flapping of the sail. Finding these all tied up and entangled, and unable to relieve them, he drew his sheath knife, and then, by the aid of one of the buntlines slipped partly over the yard, and ripped the belly of the immense sheet of canvas, whose furious flapping tossed him hither and thither, necessitating an athletic grip and a cool courage which few men, even sailors, possess. To add to the danger of his position, the upper foretopsail sheets, which were of chain, whizzed and whirled about his head like gigantic cyclopean whips, one cut of which would have slashed him in pieces far out to sea. Having accomplished the ripping of the sail, the wind soon had the canvas rent to shreds and blown far beyond the roach of our sailmaker's skill, nothing being left to do but to help the flapping parts by cutting them adrift from the lashings which held them to the stay. This being done, Jeffrey, in less time than it takes to tell, succeeded in reaching the deck unharmed, but completely exhausted, being unable to speak for hours after, while the ship having righted herself and the other sails made fast, the extreme peril and nerve shattering excitement of the night was past. But our trials were far from over, for the storm continued to rage on for nights and days, the cold being intense, the crew growing weakened through overwork and warts of sleep. One evening, a few days after the incident previously described, the men of my watch had just come down from aloft and were making aft for the usual tot of grog, when some one sang out, "Look out, boys, here she comes," the "she" proving to be a huge sea coming down upon us right astern, rising gradually in height till its crest appeared on a level with the mizzen yard, when over it came with a crash that shook every plank in the ship, and a force that swept her from stern to stem, carrying with it men, bulwarks, sheep pens, and ropes, in fact, everything that could be shifted by its irrepressible force. The writer of this experienced during this visit a narrow escape, for he found himself overboard in the middle of a great body of water, twirled and tossed helplessly about, but, fortunately, entangled in a mass of ropes, knotted up in a style that would have tested the unravelling ability of the Devonport brothers. Half-drowned, and fast becoming unconscious, I was caught and dragged to a place of safety to find that I was in the grasp of Jeffrey. When the excitement caused by the inraid of the sea had subsided, and the watch was mustered it was found that the steward, a fine young Australian, and an able seaman had been washed away, nothing being seen of them. The W.G.R. was now almost a complete shipwreck, and the effect of this further serious loss of life was to greatly depress the spirits of the crew, and when it is remembered that the ship was shorthanded on leaving Melbourne, it will be readily understood that I am not overdrawing my story when I say that every vestige of hope had left us and despair reigned supreme.

      "One more like that, and we shall never see old England again," the mate had exclaimed when the great wave had come and gone, and such was the feeling of all on board that no man had great hopes of ever seeing its cities or fields again. Our sailmaker, a fine old man of seventy-two years of age, who had been over fifty years at sea, told me that he had never experienced such a long spell of dangerous weather as was encountered by the W.G.R. "Look here, mate," said he, "Shipwrecks by storm and fire, fair and foul I have seen, but never have I taken my turn on a ship that has through such a time as this, and it all comes about through sailing on a Friday."

      The final tragic event, the one which inspired the relation of this story has now to be told. One evening, but a few days after the last disaster, during which Captain Curtis and the mate had been badly injured by raiding seas, the watch to which Jeffrey and I were attached was below. Our vessel was at this time about five hundred miles off Cape Horn, and about one hundred miles from St. George's Island, a great whaling and sealing station principally used by American ships. We were bowling along at about eleven knots, with a good stiff sou-westerly wind, the sea being still boisterous and the weather icy cold. My shipmate and I were lying in our bunks this morning, having enjoyed a good sound sleep, the first for many days and nights and were indulging in a chat. It was very evident to me that my friend was suffering from a great depression of spirits, though he made strong attempts to shake it off talking of his home and prospects. As he had been absent five years each week of our voyage seemed to add intensity to his concentration of thought on these, and now as I think back, a greater dread that he would never reach there. At last, yielding up to the mood that was strong upon him, he remarked:

      "Do you know, Will, that I have had a strong belief from the first hour I crossed the gangway of this ship that I shall never see home again."

      "Oh, stow it, Jeff, and change your tack," I replied. "You've got an attack of bush blues, a disease the lonely Australian back block settler gets occasionally when the tea has been stewed too long, and the damper made with the unexpected shower of rain coming down the wide wooden chimney on to the hot cover of ashes. Why, look here," I continued, "the worst of the weather is pretty well over; we have got the poor old ship in pretty good trim and in a few weeks at most will be sound in London docks, fast forgetting the unlucky trip and W.G.R. as shortly afterwards I shall be telling to an admiring audience consisting of your mother, brothers, sisters, and a certain sweetheart, a story in which a shipmate named Jeff is the hero, being an account of an Antwerp boy's pluck during a fearful night, when for the safety of his ship, and the lives of his mates he faced almost certain death."

      Almost in vain I spoke, uttering everything I could think of to cheer him. He listened to mo quietly enough, but when I had finished, said: "I have often felt that I was predestined to find my end at sea, and only that I should like to live for sake of those at home, would wish for no better than a sailor's death, and no softer resting place than a sailor's grave. But I suppose," continued he, "that if a fellow was drowning, though even a sailor, he would struggle hard to save himself. Don't think I'm soft," said poor Jeff, "I can't help my thoughts, but I want you to promise that if anything should happen to me, that you will cross over to Antwerp if you arrive safe in London. Give my mother the proceeds of my things, which can be sold on board and tell her that never for a day did I forget her and Marie."

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PART III.

      In order to soothe my friend I readily promised him all he asked, and though greatly impressed in spite of myself by his peculiar manner tried to say something humorous and cheerful as a last endeavour to turn his thoughts from the painful theme, but a swelling seemed to gather in my throat and choke back the words. We had dinner, and soon after eight bells struck (12 noon) and our watch went on deck to duty. From the moment we set our feet on deck I felt a strange desire to avoid coming near or speaking to Jeffrey, for his presence through his past words seemed to plunge me into a gloomy mood which I could not shake off. I, however, watched him intently whenever I could seize the opportunity, all through our watch, which lasted till four bells (4 o'clock). Nothing of note occurred up to that hour, and I saw the officer on the poop actually in the act of walking up to the bell to strike it when the order, O, bitter irony of fate, was shouted out "Jeffrey and Williams lay forward and make that jib fast." Now while proceeding on to the forecastle to obey the order, four bells were struck aft and answered forward and, therefore, it was, strictly speaking, our watch below. There was no disputing the order in those days, it was at all times any man's watch, and as we hurried forward, I glanced at Jeffrey. His face wore its usual firm but good-natured expression, for it must not be imagined that he was of a gloomy temperament. The plump face, fair skin and blue eyes had little affinity with melancholy and no man had been more ready than he to cheer the drooping spirits of those around him, or assist them by leading at every point of duty. "First aloft, and last below," I think must have been his proverb. On this occasion he was the first to lay out on the boom, the position of greatest danger, I following. It was a most unpleasant piece of work which we had to perform, for besides being exceedingly cold at time, our ship had lately acquired an evil habit of ducking or dipping, which act performed quickly a few times in rapid succession, soon had us both thoroughly soaked and almost frozen. I was lightly dressed, but Jeffrey had on in addition to extra woollen clothing, oilskins and big sea boots. Not being so heavily encumbered I had my gaskets made fast first, and shivering with cold began crawling to the forecastle. On reaching it I turned round to see if my shipmate was following, when a sight met my gaze that chilled me in a moment worse than wind and water, a sight time seems unable to efface, for I still see it. Overcome by cold or weakness, or losing his foothold, poor Jeff, when I turned, was in the act of falling backwards into the angry sea, his hands spasmodically clutched as though he tried to grasp some friendly stay or spar in his fall. With a yell of "Man overboard" that rang through the ship, above and below, in defiance of wind and weather, I sprang to the main deck, sped aft, bounded on to poop, slash, slash went my sheath knife, and two life-buoys were thrown by me in the direction of our brave and ill-fated shipmate. Had there been a dozen I would have thrown them all. So quick had been my action that I had been enabled to fling the first buoy almost within his reach, the other being thrown in excitement that knew no reasoning.

      The cry of "Man overboard" was repeated from mouth to mouth, and in far less time than it takes to tell the whole of the crew were on deck, each man at his post, prepared to put the ship about and lower a boat. But the order came not for by the side of the only boat which storms had spared to us stood the skipper and mate, each holding in his hand an old-fashioned ship's pistol, at which, under a less serious occasion I should have laughed.

      "Lower away," shouted the men, frantic with grief and excitement, at the danger of their popular fellow-seaman.

      "I'll drop the man who first touches a rope," now calmly came from the skipper. "My boys," he continued, his voice quivering with suppressed emotion, "I am bound to take this ship home if I can. We are shorthanded, have only this boat, and could never get her back on board, so poor Jeffrey must go," and as he said the last words the tears ran down his weatherbeaten face, for no one better than Captain Curtis knew the value of the man struggling for life, such a struggle as I hope never to see again. The crew watched him silently for a brief moment, then again some one shouted "Lower away the boat," but the pistols in the hands of the determined officers kept the majority back who perceived the force of the skipper's warning words. Night was fast creeping upon us, and there is but little doubt but that its oncoming would have endangered the boat's return.

      The crew wept and cursed alternately, the whole scene being terribly trying to me. Poor Jeffrey was a strong favourite with everyone on board, and had fairly won his way by his uncomplaining, cheerful, social temper; always to the fore on deck and aloft, a splendid sample of a British sailor for in British ships had he gained his seafaring experience. During time the skipper and the crew were striving for the mastery, Jeffrey had been left a good distance astern. In the meantime I had climbed to the mizzentop with a speed and forgetfulness of self which I could never have entertained under ordinary conditions where from my elevated position I at times plainly saw my poor friend on the crest of a big wave as it came on towards us, and, was it fancy? his eyes seemed to me to centred on mine, while the expression of his face appeared to say, "Why do you forsake me?"

      Then his words and premonition of death came back to me. I believe I was the only one who saw the last of him. Long after I ceased to catch a glimpse of him, I frantically shouted farewells, the tears running in torrents down my cheeks as I thought of his home, his well-described loved ones, and remembered that he had his wish in "a sailor's death and a sailor's grave." Within a day or two after this the weather became much better, the ship was trimmed up a bit, and one lovely day an auction of my mate's effects took place, sailors and officers bidding hard against each other to secure some article as a keepsake, every article being sold at five or six times its original value. Glancing up on the wall as I write, I see a small simple black fur cap, whose market value is indeed small, but whose "In memoriam" price I make no attempt to adjust.

      The rest of the voyage was as the calm after the storm, and the many curious gazers at our long over-due vessel probably wondered where could have been to have got so disfigured. A week after being discharged in London, I crossed over to Antwerp, and on a small, but pleasant, well-kept farm, found the mother, brothers and sisters wanted. Little Marie had gone full two years before her lover. With faltering lips and beating heart I delivered up to the grief-stricken and much surprised family the message and package committed to my care by Jeffrey, with the money received for his effects, which our late skinner entrusted to my care. Anxious to get away from the troubled feelings which the sight of my new friends aroused in me, I refused their pleadings to stay more than two days. On my re-arrival in London I again fell in with Captain Curtis of the W.G.R., and introduced him to my friends, amongst whom he spent some happy days during his stay ashore. On the vessel being ready to put to sea again, her destination being India, he offered me a vacant berth, but tired of the life, I declined. I saw him sail, I never saw him return. The evil star of the vessel pursued her. The last time she was seen and heard of was in the Indian seas. She never reached her destination, and it is presumed went down in a cyclone in those treacherous waters, where the skipper, the vessel and the crew, like poor Jeff, found "a sailor's grave."

(THE END)